


lead weights.

by duckiebin



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Coming Out, Gen, Ghost Wilbur Soot, Ghosts, Light Angst, Post-Manberg-Pogtopia War on Dream Team SMP (Video Blogging RPF), Post-War, Pre-Eret Adoption, They/Them Pronouns for Eret (Video Blogging RPF), Trans Character, Trans Floris | Fundy, Trans Male Character, ghostbur is an okay dad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-04
Updated: 2020-12-04
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:26:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27682189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/duckiebin/pseuds/duckiebin
Summary: After the war, Fundy feels like it's time to finally tell everyone who he's always been. Who they just couldn't yet see.
Relationships: (mentioned a bit but it's not major), Clay | Dream/Floris | Fundy, Eret & Floris | Fundy, Floris | Fundy & Wilbur Soot
Comments: 5
Kudos: 352





	lead weights.

**Author's Note:**

> JUST,, IMAGINE FUNDY WASN'T OUT AS TRANS TO ANYONE BEFORE THE WAR :D  
> Also! This was written on the 17th! There may be information that is inaccurate now ^^
> 
> TW // dysphoria, mentioned character deaths, ghost character

Recently, the solid lead blocks of stress Fundy has been carrying in his heart have been a lot heavier than they usually are. Everything seems to be piling up way faster than they did before: from having to fight a war for this disaster of a country he’s been living in his entire life, to dealing with the anxiety of not being as close as he wants to be to his family, to living this stupid fucking “double life” shit he’s been working with: being in the closet to everyone but Eret and himself. It’s especially that last part that’s been plaguing Fundy’s conscience the most with its thick red fuzz of anger it carries with itself.

There's just something about the fear of having to hear a name you hate with every fiber of your being during _war_ , and having to react to it without being able to give the slightest bit of an indication that you're unhappy. There's no room left for wondering when you could finally tell the soldiers, the _family_ , you fight beside what you would rather be called; when you could tell _your own father_ what you would rather be called. There's the white-hot panic that comes when he hears Eret stumble over his name in front of a flurry of people that could hurt them if they take a single incorrect step.

Everything just builds up inside of him like the most unstable stack of plastic building blocks one could find until Fundy is in the safety of his home to topple over. As soon as he closes the wooden door behind him, his brain forces him to remember every single shouted deadname and wrong pronoun that he heard throughout the entire day. His brain forces him to rush to his room, rip off his armor, and sob. It's fucking sickening.

Fundy wouldn’t crave anything more than to just be honest with everyone; to just come out and finally take this burden off of his shoulders. He’s tired of barely being coherent enough to fight after hours of staring at his glow-in-the-dark star coated ceiling, not being able to think about anything but the extra weight he feels sitting on his chest, hand crafted by his own fucking horomones. If he could just pluck up enough courage to speak the thoughts eating away at his brain these past few years, he could finally be a functioning person again.

He would _really_ love that, but he’s afraid that it would just ruin everything that they’re all working for. If he finally comes clean — tells everyone that it makes him feel suffocated to be referred to the way he is now: that he wants to be Fundy, that he wants to use he/him pronouns instead of she/her — he could make everything too tense to fight as well as they need to.

So Fundy waits, even though waiting makes everything hurt more. He waits for the fighting to be over, for Manberg’s ex-president to cease to exist, for everything to be peaceful again, for L’Manberg to be taken back over and renamed, for Tubbo to become President, for the fighting and explosions that come after that to end. He waits for his own father to forever be gone, and for a crater similar to what L'Manberg currently is to be created in his chest due to that. It’s better for everyone that way, even if it makes him feel like he has a bright, glowing iron pressed to his throat.

When he finally deems the country stable enough to handle what he desperately needs to say, he makes sure to start small. He creates a game plan with Eret, for the fourth time this year. They help Fundy to decide how everything will happen; what order he’ll tell people, the way he’ll tell them, and how he’d explain anything; all specifically curated to each person.

The first person on his list is Dream, his fiancé, and someone who’s stuck by his side for so many rewatchings of Animal Planet. Sure, it may be a bit difficult to trust the other, since the green man did indirectly lead to the death of his father, but he needs to be the first to know.

And so Fundy tells him. Through frustratingly hot tears and choked out sobs, he tells Dream everything. He tells his entire story from start to finish. From the first time Wilbur had accidentally called Fundy his son to sitting in the castle with Eret, whispering nervously about how he’d finally be able to openly be who he’s always been. It’s millions of times harder than Fundy could have ever imagined. 

After he gets the first one out of the way, telling everyone else almost comes naturally. He has to sit through a little bit of confusion with each person, especially with Tommy, but it’s nothing he didn’t expect.

_“You’re a fox though, aren’t you?” Tommy asked, curiosity written clearly across his face as if he were a puppy._

_“Foxes have genders too, Toms,” Fundy had laughed back, mouth twitching up in a slight smile at the younger’s dumb question._

If Fundy’s honest, he expected a lot worse, especially with his grandfather and uncles, but they all planned a family dinner as soon as everyone knew and made sure that every member consistently got his name and pronouns right.

There is one person Fundy is a little hesitant to tell, though. Well, less of a person, more of a little stone grave on the edge of the capitol that Fundy can barely bring himself to look at.

His dad’s grave is just as beautiful as he imagined it would be; carefully crafted and placed so that the light would illuminate it just right, accenting the little guitar carved next to the graceful script writing _“Wilbur Soot”_ in smooth print. Fundy isn’t sure who’s handwriting it is.

He makes sure to bring all of the flowers he could find with him, tying them together with a long piece of grass that he is careful not to rip. His father deserves even more than this for everything Fundy had put him through.

As he walks over to the stone, he can feel the thoroughly calmed down presence of Wilbur’s spirit watching him. Even though he couldn’t see the other, Fundy smiles and greets him with a soft _“Hey, Wilbur”_ as he sets the bouquet down on the recently packed dirt. He sits next to the grave, making sure to move over the other little trinkets, plants, and food left behind to avoid damaging them. Fundy crosses his legs and leans back on his hands, taking a deep breath to try to steady his rapid heart rate. He feels something scratch softly behind his right ear. It must be the wind.

“You seem a bit more relaxed now that you’ve blown up the place, aren't you?” Fundy whispers, too afraid to speak any louder than a soft mumble. Afraid of what, he doesn’t know, but it causes a little tremble in his shoulders and the smallest shake in his voice.

Silence replies back to him.

He breathes again, leaning forward and resting his chin on one of his hands before he finds his voice again to speak. “I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner. I didn’t want to remind myself of all the times I fucked up with you. Of saying you're not my dad, and that I'm not your kid, and that I disappointed you.”

He feels a slight pressure between his shoulder blades, like the comforting hand that Phil had rested there earlier in the week. A voice that sounds strangely familiar mumbles back. “You didn’t fuck up, bub.”

“It’s almost like I can still feel you and hear you. It’s almost like you’re still here,” Fundy lets out a pained, airy laugh, tilting his head back and staring at the cloudless blue sky above him. “I wish you were still here.”

“I am still here, promise.” There was no mistaking the accent that spoke back to him, and for a minute, Fundy let himself believe in ghosts.

“Dad,” Fundy’s voice gives a pitiful crack, “I need to tell you something, but you have to promise that you can’t be mad at me.”

“Of course, let it out, kiddo.” He feels the little smile in Wilbur’s voice, and he longs to see it so badly.

“Dad, I want to be your son.”

There’s silence again. A beat. Then, Fundy’s crying. He curls up in a tight ball, shoulders shaking with the realization that he could have ruined everything with Wilbur, again. Wilbur, who’s a ghost next to him. Wilbur, who isn’t even _alive._

His breathing skips in a little hiccup, and he feels the chillingly icy hands of his biggest regrets softly rubbing little circles into his back, shushing him comfortingly.

“When I told you that you could be anything, I didn’t lie. If you want to be my beautiful son, then you can be him. I still love you no matter what, and I will always accept you.”

The biggest sob they both have ever heard rips out of his body, and Fundy whips himself around to throw himself into invisible arms, clinging to a cold body that is barely tangible. With mumbled little _“thank you so much, I love you”_ ’s spilling from chapped lips and a shaky voice box, along with ghostly palms running over a heaving back and through greasy orange hair, the two of them stay there for Wilbur’s now proclaimed _son_ to be able to breathe steadily again.

“My lovely son, what would you like me to call you?”

“Fundy, please. Please, nothing else, I just wanna be Fundy!” The fox doesn’t care that he’s shouting now, too many emotions whirling around in his mind to be able to control his voice.

“Alright, Fundy. Your old man will always love you, respawn or not.”

And after all of the struggles that have been happening through Fundy’s short life, he finally finds himself able to breathe again. The lead weights he carries have finally been lifted. Even if the world around him is still a disaster, Fundy feels safe; comforted in his ghostly father's cool embrace.


End file.
